


dead fuckin stop

by xXstaystillXx



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, vague incest overtones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21824821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXstaystillXx/pseuds/xXstaystillXx
Summary: Pic outtake. We both look greasy and drunk. Note Gerard's hair. He asked me to give him bangs so I walked to Walgreen's, bought some peanut M&M's, a pair of $5 scissors, and made him look like one of The Ramones.
Relationships: Gerard Way/Mikey Way
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30





	dead fuckin stop

**Author's Note:**

> [yeah](https://66.media.tumblr.com/bab20fa20320d4dafebebf833dfcfc3d/tumblr_mker5nEzem1qhbq7lo1_540.png). quick drabble thing.

“We do have like, stylists and shit.”

Gerard uncrosses his legs and shifts all his weight to his planted feet like he’s afraid the toilet seat will snap and send him ass-first into the bowl if he puts his full weight on it. Mikey gets it— the bus bathroom as always felt weirdly fake, a quiet little vacuum, everything in it just plastic dollhouse furniture, the kind that’ll start bleaching white at the fold you bend it. 

“We have roadies that used to ponyshow their girlfriends for prom, not stylists. Pretty sure you’re just as qualified.”

“When have I ever done shit for prom?” Mikey says, even as he’s picking up a comb and brushing Gerard’s hair down straight over his face, the brand-spankin’-new scissors posed in his other hand like he’s seen the “stylists” doing and, an even fainter image, watched his mom do when she got tired of Gerard’s bratty refusal to be dragged to Great Clips; a phase he’d never really gotten out of and one Mikey never really fell into. She always looked so exact, as if she knew exactly what she was doing, but maybe it’s just a mom thing to look right cutting a kid’s hair because more often than not Gerard ended up with a borderline bowl-cut, the jagged layers showing easy in his thin dark hair (faintly, her voice in Mikey’s head goes _well, that was because he wouldn’t quit squirming, he should have stopped fussing and gone to the barber when he had the chance, shouldn’t be have?_ and it’s so clear it spooks him a little, like she died when he wasn’t looking and her ghost is paying him a two-second visit).

He picks up a strand and tugs on it, slides his fingers to where the ends start to split and tries to measure off an inch-or-so. “I feel like I could wring this out and it’d start dripping, take a fucking shower.”

“Pot calling the kettle black,” Gerard says, and jabs him in the side, nubby little elbow digging in right below his ribcage.

Mikey makes the first cut, _snip_ , onomatopoeia, and Gerard’s hair sheds to the floor in little stringy hunks; he thinks this is day four without seeing the inside of a shower stall, so individual slivers stick to the pads of his fingers like black inch-long needles, lingering even when he shakes his hand and rubs it on his jeans. There was a story their mom used to tell about Handsome Don coming home from work with fraction-of-a-millimeter-thick copper wires stuck under the skin of his palms from working on delicate, delicate computer parts, and Mikey wonders if that'll happen to him, too, with this, if Gerard is like those delicate machines and his ink black hair will worm under his skin in splinters. 

“You know I’m ad libbing this, right?” he says, moving strand by strand, trying to be symmetrical, trying to remember how bangs are supposed to look. 

Gerard shrugs, blows hair out of his eye even though he put it there for a reason, if he could just tolerate it for a second, jesus. “Whatever. The fucked-up look is in right now,” and Mikey snorts so he grins and folds up his hands in his lap, straightens his back, starts imitating some starstruck girlie, “Oh, did you see his _hair_ , it looked like he got in a brawl with a lawnmower, like, ugh, so hot,” making his vowels big round bubbles and smacking his jaw between words like he was chewing gum with his whole mouth, as if he didn’t always chew gum like a valley girl. 

Mikey presses the handle of the scissors into the side of his head, tries to get him to turn. “Just wait. You’re going to look like a two-year-old’s barbie doll by the time I’m done.” 

He flutters his lashes— little stray cut hairs shaking on the ends, this close to dripping into his eyes— and says “ _Fuck_ yes, so chic,” except he pronounces chic “chick” and Mikey can’t tell if it’s part of the act or if he thinks that’s right. 

“Can you even see anything?” 

“Nah. Blind as a bat.” He goes to shake the hair out of his face again but Mikey holds his head still with one hand splayed out, like Gerard’s a claw machine toy and he’s the metal arm. 

“Hold on,” Mikey says, trying really hard to hold in his laughter, “dude, you have to let me take a picture.” He gets his cheap digital camera from where it’s about to topple into the sink— he forgets why he brought it into the bathroom, maybe it was something about catching Gerard in the dollhouse— and absolutely is going to snap a picture of his brother sat on the toilet with hair a solid sheet over his eyes, but first he fumbles a handful of M&Ms out of the bag. Strays spill into the sink, tumble down the drain. 

Mikey presses one of the candies against his own lips like he’s going to wish on it, careful to keep it dry because Gerard isn’t watching, not really, and if he fed him a spit-wet M&M he’d think he licked it to be gross. When he says “Open your mouth,” he doesn’t go _why_ all suspicious or anything, just opens right up, trusts him like that, and Mikey tosses the candy and he nearly chokes on it, laughs. The camera flash catches him right when his mouth is all twisted up in a closed-lip smile, as he cracks the candy between his back teeth. Good one.

Mikey sets down the camera and goes back for the scissors but Gerard says “Leave it. Pretty sure it'll be all downhill from here.”

“You’re kidding me. You look like one of The Ramones, but like, a scene kid,” Mikey says.

“Dunno, The Ramones were pretty big, man.” Gerard grins and it’s a sitcom gag, the kid who decided to take grooming into his own hands and ended up a sheepdog.

“Oh, so the trick to fame is a hairstyle?”

Gerard says “Beiber,” and Mikey can’t argue with that so he flicks his cheek and leaves him shelved in plastic, goes to the kitchenette for a beer, and as he walks he thinks about the smooth red candy shell against his lips and then in Gerard’s mouth.


End file.
